


Shadows in the Corner of Your Eye

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Series: Light, Smoke and Mirrors [8]
Category: Dark Tower - Stephen King
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 13:31:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12433896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: “We seldom have the luck to watch others die the deaths we would choose for them,” Marten says quietly. “It is not one of those times, I’m afraid.”Steven stares, then shakes his head as it dawns on him it is Marten’s peculiar way of offering condolences. Then understands the magician is waiting for an answer, for once courteous enough not to ask the question aloud.





	Shadows in the Corner of Your Eye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Star_Miya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Miya/gifts).



> (Not exactly part of the series, but fits with the other fics. Written for a prompt from the 'sensory prompts' set on tumblr, thrown at me by Miya: "Darting shadows in the corner of your eye".)

Steven watches as the lace weaved of lights and shadows dances across his father’s face, making it seem alive, making the eyelashes seem to flutter, as if Henry Deschain was to open his eyes again and look at his son once more. It will not be; not until – if – until – they meet again at the Clearing at the end of the path.

It was to be expected that his father’s death would not be natural; few of their profession die of old age, after all. It was to be expected that he would not come back home one day, unseeing eyes looking up into the burning sun as he would lie with a bullet hole in his chest. That, Steven was prepared for. Gunpowder and lightning; the right kind of death for a gunslinger, perhaps.

But not poison, quiet as moonlight and equally traceless. That is how Pierce De Curry knew what had killed an otherwise healthy man; only one poison leaves no trace. Neither does magic, Marten said; but he would know if it had been magic. Some looked askance at him, not certain it if was a jest, a provocation, or merely stating a fact, but Steven knows better. Marten is – _was_ his father’s court magician, and only a fool would have forsaken his own future in such a way – and Marten is no fool.

Shadows move in the corner of Steven’s eyes, as if darting from – or towards something, and he turns abruptly, hands reaching for his father’s guns that still feel too heavy to carry.

The shadows turn out to be Marten’s dark robes. The magician says nothing as he enters the chamber, only nods at Steven solemnly – it is odd to see him so serious – and slowly approaches Henry Deschain’s body. There is a single flower in his hand; a lily, the usual flower given to the dead. Its petals are so thin they seem aglow when candlelight shines through them. The flower must be weaved of magic, Steven thinks, but then, as Marten lays the lily at his father’s feet, he can smell its scent: heavy and so sweet it is suffocating; sweet like a poison. But that particular poison leaves traces; Steven has seen it in his travels. He has also seen that not all people love house Deschain; with some time and Marten’s help, he will find out which one of them is guilty.

The magician steps back, but does not leave. Simply stands beside the door quietly, flickering flames casting eerie shadows across his face.

They have never been friends; Steven has his _tet_ , and by the time he earned his guns, Marten had already been his father’s advisor for almost a year. Considerably younger than Henry and his _tet_ , a few years older than Steven, falling right between two generations. But Steven had always been more serious than other boys his age, while Marten had always had a mischievous streak, like a boy. Not enough for friendship, but enough for both of them to recognize they were two odd peas in the pod. There were few other similarities between them, if any at all, but that little thing, and the fact they both realized quite early they would probably have to work together one day, with Marten being a magician at Steven’s court as he was at his father’s – it was enough for an understanding of sorts. Just like with the poison, when Marten was the only person who needed no explanation on why Steven did not suspect him, who knew the logic and reasoning behind that.

“We seldom have the luck to watch others die the deaths we would choose for them,” Marten says quietly. “It is not one of those times, I’m afraid.”

Steven stares, then shakes his head as it dawns on him it is Marten’s peculiar way of offering condolences. Then understands the magician is waiting for an answer, for once courteous enough not to ask the question aloud.

They have never been friends, and Marten has never been one to show much respect – but he gets things done. And Steven will need an advisor who can do that. Who knows how the cogwheels turn, in Gilead. Marten knows all that and more; sometimes he probably also guesses how the cogwheels turn in Steven’s head. And that, too, has its uses.

“You can stay in Gilead,” Steven replies. “As my court magician,” he adds after a long pause, not yet used to thinking of himself as the lord, making all important decisions.

“I appreciate that.” It is hard to read Marten’s face in the dim light, but he seems glad. There are far worse places for a magician to end up in, after all.

Steven looks at his father’s pale countenance, and then at the guns lying in his lap. Beautiful guns; finest steel and sandalwood; the weight of history and now also of grief. The first time Steven took them in his hands, he was surprised at being able to lift them at all.

“See to the funeral arrangements, will you?” It is half an order and half a question. Like their whole acquaintance; half friends and yet half strangers.

Marten nods. “With utmost care, _dinh_ _-sai_.”

Steven is not the _dinh_ yet. No, a long way from that. But Marten’s words make him turn his gaze to that path and look ahead, towards the horizon, for the first time since his father’s death.


End file.
